


Outside Interests

by flaming_muse



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 08:05:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12649506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaming_muse/pseuds/flaming_muse
Summary: "It’s ridiculous and stupid for Alec not to know what to do with his hands when it’s not in his role as a Shadowhunter, but then all of him feels itchy and awkward and real inside his skin in a way he only does with Magnus."Tea, rain, conversation, awkwardness, and maybe a kiss or two.Set a day or two after 2x20 "Beside Still Water"





	Outside Interests

“Here we are,” Magnus says, gliding across his living room and setting a lacquered tray on the coffee table in front of Alec. “Tea for two.” He adds in song, “And two for tea.” He chuckles to himself. “I’ll spare you the rest. I have been praised for many of my abilities over the years, but never, I’m afraid, for my singing.”

Alec watches, feeling a little bit stiff and a little bit lazy in his spot on the couch, as Magnus doesn’t so much sit as descend gracefully onto the opposite side.

“I don’t mind,” Alec says with what he hopes is a smile. Magnus’s movements are sure and fluid as he measures leaves into a pale green teapot that looks simple and probably is old and incredibly expensive. “Thanks for making tea.” He’s so _glad_ be near Magnus again, but - unfortunately - that doesn’t mean he’s suddenly learned how to be anything but awkward.

“It’s my pleasure,” Magnus assures him.

Alec’s combination of stiffness and laziness is familiar to him. It has been a part of his time in Magnus’s apartment from the very beginning, where he is often able to let down his guard - even enough to sleep - and yet is always aware of how out of place he is in the beautiful space. The proportions of feeling awkward and at ease have ebbed and flowed for Alec, but he’s never really free of either of them inside these magically warded walls.

Magnus is, of course, entirely relaxed in his own home, and even though Alec hasn’t watched Magnus make tea like this before the domesticity of the moment isn’t that new. Alec knows this apartment, with its lovely furnishings and shelter from the chaos of the rest of their lives, and on this rainy evening with the balcony doors swung wide it feels cozy and soft. He knows this man, with his beautiful clothes and beautiful eyes. He’s been here with him many times before, and after their recent estrangement he’s grateful to be back here again.

And yet, Alec feels oddly out of place, like his boots are too dirty or his legs are too long. He flexes his fingers on his thighs and tries to figure out where to put his hands. They feel large and clumsy, and he clenches them into fists. It doesn’t make them feel any better. Everything is delicate here, but he is anything but. Both physically and emotionally, he’s proven how bad he is at being delicate.

He doesn’t want to break anything: a cup, a chair, or a person’s heart.

Magnus swirls the pot and sets it back on the tray, and Alec stares at Magnus’s hands and wonders with a flare of panic if he’ll be able to relax enough to think about anything else but his own.

He doesn’t usually think about his hands. They’re tools, weapons, there to hold a bow or a stele, there to take down an opponent or to yank a friend out of danger. They’re broad and calloused, strong and scarred.

He uses them all the time, but he doesn’t _think_ about them.

Until now.

Should he fold them together? Should he put them on his thighs? Does that make him look like a statue? He considers crossing his arms and wonders if he would look angry. He doesn’t want to look angry.

Magnus had been angry. Angry enough with him - with plenty of reason - to think it wasn’t possible to protect his people and have Alec at his side. Alec doesn’t want anger to come between them again. He just wants to be here, with him, with both of them comfortable and happy.

Magnus lays his hand on the side of the pot for a moment - probably testing the heat but in fact making Alec’s _face_ heat at the reminder of a similar gentle caress on his own bare skin by those be-ringed fingers - and then sits back in his seat with a pleased hum. “It will just take a few minutes to steep fully. Too short, and the tea will be weak. Too long, and it will be bitter.”

“Huh,” Alec says, trying to be responsive. Trying to be _normal_. “Couldn’t you just, uh, conjure it up the way you want it?”

 _They’re just my hands_ , he tells himself and tries not to fidget. It’s ridiculous and stupid not to know what to do with his hands when it’s not in his role as a Shadowhunter, but then all of him feels itchy and awkward and _real_ inside his skin in a way he only does with Magnus.

It’s maybe a good awkward, but compared to how poised and perfect Magnus almost always is, compared to how steady Alec feels when out hunting, it’s still kind of new territory.

“Of course,” Magnus says. “But the point isn’t the tea, or not _just_ the tea. It’s the whole process.”

Alec nods. He gets that. There’s something soothing about fletching his own arrows, after all, sharpening the head with precision and making sure every centimeter of the shaft is straight and smooth. It isn’t just about using them; making them is almost like meditation.

Still, arrows are a tool. They keep him alive. Tea is only for pleasure. He would never have thought of spending time on steeping it if you could create it out of thin air.

“I’ve mostly just seen those little bags,” he says.

“There are tea bags in Idris?” Magnus asks, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“No,” Alec admits. He remembers his mother with a steaming mug in her hands in the mornings when he was a boy, but he realizes he has no idea how she made it. It wasn’t something she shared with him. It wasn’t important to his training. “I guess I’ve just never really drunk much tea. Clary does, though. Usually it smells like mint.”

Magnus fixes a doting smile upon him. “The bags are convenient, I agree, but I promise you this experience will be entirely different.” He adjusts a delicate china cup on the tray so that its handle is angled just so. “Tea is an art, not just a beverage. To do it right, the process requires patience. And a good bit of knowledge.”

“I don’t know a lot about tea,” Alec admits. He can’t help but grin a little at himself. “Or patience, really.”

Magnus chuckles and sits back, his focus fully back on Alec’s face. “I’ve seen you sit still for a good half hour, barely breathing, while waiting for a demon to come into your sights. That seems like patience to me.”

“That’s different. That’s my training.” That kind of patience is like trying to figure out what to do with his hands; if he’s out on patrol he can be still and silent for hours without a bit of worry, but those quiet moments late at night in his room in the Institute make him feel antsy now in a way they never used to. Like he knows he could be doing something else. He could be somewhere else, be someone else, someone who does more than hunt and command and train and sleep.

That idea, like the pleasure of making tea this way, is definitely new.

It is, without question, thanks to Magnus.

“Well,” Magnus says, “those skills carry over to new arenas.” His eyes warm, his voice growing into something a bit more rough and intimate. “I, for one, am very appreciative of the intensity of your focus in certain, more private situations.”

Alec ducks his head, feeling himself flush again under Magnus’s attention. He doesn’t look away, though. He’s not embarrassed, just pleased. Pleased that he can make Magnus happy, pleased that he can have this at all, this flirty, soft, unexpected life outside of what he thought was predetermined to be his. “I’m pretty sure that’s just because of you. I like focusing on you.”

Magnus laughs, his happiness like a caress on Alec’s heart. “I like it, too.” They smile at each other for a moment, the tea set between them, the rain pattering gently outside on the terrace. It’s quiet, peaceful, easy, and if Alec still feels big and awkward and out of place, he _wants_ to find a place here, here with Magnus, here where he can be not just the Shadowhunter he was shaped to be but simply a man, a man alone with another man he loves.

“How did you learn about the tea?” he asks, because part of what he likes about Magnus are the stories and surprises, the many new things to learn. “Did you grow up with it?”

“No,” Magnus replies. “We had tea, of course, but nothing like this. It’s just something I picked up because it interested me. A hobby, you could say. Like wine-tasting, which I also enjoy. Or playing polo, which I do not.”

Alec nods and thinks about that idea, thinks about how some voice in his head - oddly similar to his mother’s - would tell him it was wasteful to develop a skill that wasn’t related to his work. “I don’t really have hobbies,” he says. “Having outside interests was kind of frowned upon when I was growing up.”

Magnus’s eyes twinkle. “Yes, it’s hard to imagine the inimitable Maryse Lightwood driving you to Little League practice on Saturday mornings between bouts of archery drills and rune training.”

“Yeah.” Something twists in Alec’s gut, a little hint of... not quite regret, but _awareness_ , maybe, that his life could have been different. _He_ could have been different. Even as a Shadowhunter, he could have been different. He could have had more, if his parents had been willing to think that way. Not going to Little League, obviously, but _something_.

They could have taught him some about the bigger world beyond his calling, beyond his blood.

 _He_ could have been part of that bigger world.

Magnus leans forward and peeks into the teapot. “Ah,” he says. “It’s ready.” He arranges a little strainer on top of one of the cups and pours with deft fingers. The tea is a pretty green, paler than grass, and Magnus doesn’t spill a drop.

“Here you are. Let’s see how this rates against Mr. Lipton’s finest.” Magnus hands Alec a cup.

The scent of the tea floating up on a curl of steam is gentle and tempting. Alec takes a sip, and it’s delicate on his tongue. Light. Fresh. Not too bitter, not like he usually thinks of tea. He doesn’t know how to describe it. He knows Magnus would, probably with precise terms like ‘aromatic’ and floral.’ They’re words Alec knows, but he doesn’t know how to make them connect with the taste in his mouth. He’s never been good with words, really - he’s never had to be - and they feel as awkward in his mind as his hands do at the ends of his arms.

He sets down the cup. “It’s good,” he says with a frown.

Magnus, of course, is holding the cup like it weighs nothing in his long fingers, like he’s doing some subtle but exquisite tea dance that he’s trained for centuries to perform. He’s the exact opposite of awkwardness, with his lithe frame and his elegant movements. He always is. It’s a joy to watch, but the contrast to his own situation is obvious to Alec.

“Would you prefer something else?” Magnus asks, watching him with those sharp, clever eyes.

“No. No.” Alec makes himself pick up the cup again. “No, Magnus. This is good. I like it.” He takes another sip, and though the liquid is warm it feels crisp on his tongue, refreshing, almost like a walk in the spring rain or the gentle touch of Magnus’s magic when he runs his fingertips over Alec’s skin in the dark. But he doesn’t have words for any of that. He just enjoys the tea. “I’m sorry if I don’t know how to say it better than that.” His next breath comes out in a soft puff through his nose, fueled by frustration.

“It’s just tea, Alexander,” Magnus says gently. “No flowery speech is required. Telling me you like it, or don’t, is more than enough.”

“I want to be able to share this with you, though,” Alec argues, mostly with himself.

With a sweep of his hand to indicate the tea set and the two of them, Magnus says, “You are, see? It’s a hobby, not a test. You don’t need to be an expert.”

“I’m used to being an expert on the things I do.”

“I know.” The sentence is simple but not judgmental. Magnus states it like a fact, like he just does know the way Alec is.

Maybe he does, Alec thinks. There aren’t that many sides to him, after all, not compared to a warlock who has lived for centuries and has known more people than he can count. Magnus has seen it all. That he wants to share it with Alec should be enough. It _is_ enough. Magnus shares both himself and a world much bigger than Alec has experienced, and that is worth all of the insecurity he has about not being able to offer the same in return.

“I’d like you to teach me about it,” Alec says, because if there’s one thing he’s been taught how to do in his life it’s to put aside his own discomfort and keep pushing toward a goal. And his goal, he realizes, is Magnus: being with Magnus and making them both happy. “Tell me all about the tea. If you want to. I’d like to know about your hobbies.”

Magnus smiles and ducks his head a little, one of those rare moments when he melts into something young and full of joy. “It would be my pleasure, Alexander. Thank you. I’d love to share that with you.”

“And if you ever want to learn about how to hit a moving target at thirty paces with a fire arrow, let me know. I don’t have a lot else to offer.” It comes out more raw and vulnerable than Alec expects, but the more time he spends away from the Institute, the more he understands how little he’s been able to enjoy outside of it. He doesn’t feel naive, not really, not with all of the dark reality he knows, but he feels... narrow. Honed to a sharp edge like a blade, with little to show to the world but a weapon that cuts.

With his usual mesmerizing grace, Magnus shifts to sit beside Alec. “You have plenty to offer,” he insists. “More than enough. You should know by now that I find you utterly delightful.”

Alec smiles at him and at the warmth in his words and says, with a self-conscious chuckle, “Thanks. Delightful: just the word I was going for.”

Magnus laughs - at him, with him - and leans in. They meet in the middle in a soft kiss that lingers, and Alec stops thinking about anything except the press of Magnus’s lips. His mouth is gentle, his whiskers are wiry, and his breath is warm against Alec’s skin. He’s missed it so much, missed _Magnus_ so much, and he is happy to set everything else aside simply to enjoy him.

When Magnus pulls away, he looks flushed and utterly elated. He fusses with the cuff of his sleeve and says, “Well.”

“Yeah,” Alec echoes, his smile wide enough to make his cheeks ache.

“I find it refreshing, you know,” Magnus says after taking a deep breath, like he’s centering himself, “that you and I don’t know all the same people, the same stories, the same spells. The Downworld can be very incestuous, you know. It gets all quite boring. You have no idea how nice it is for me to spend time with someone outside of that community.”

“Yeah, no idea, because Shadowhunters _love_ bringing in new people and ideas to liven things up.”

Magnus leans into him, shoulder to shoulder. “We’re both keeping the other from being stuck in a rut, it seems.” The words come out soft instead of with the laughter Alec was expecting.

“I guess so,” Alec says, and the idea makes his heart lift in his chest. It hadn’t occurred to him that him _not_ knowing all the same things could be a pleasure for Magnus, too. That it is a bonus that he is different, not something Magnus is kind enough to overlook.

“Besides,” Magnus continues after a moment, “we could always take up a new hobby together. Have you ever considered embroidery? One thing I’ve never attempted in all my many years is needlework.”

Alec thinks about poking a delicate needle through even more delicate fabric to make frilly designs and tries not to recoil in horror at how dull it sounds, but Magnus is already bent over laughing, his hand on Alec’s knee.

“Oh, my darling boy, your face! I was just joking.”

Alec relaxes a little and allows himself to smile. “I know,” he says, and he puts his hand on top of Magnus’s. His palm feels wide and rough in comparison, but as Magnus threads their fingers together, he finds his hand is just the right size after all.

He fits. Maybe he’s more than a little awkward, but here he fits.

“Needlework,” Magnus laughs to himself. “If I didn’t pick that up in the eighteenth century, I’m certainly not going to start now.”

Alec doesn’t really understand what that means, but he finds he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. Magnus will share it with him if he asks, or he’ll share something else about himself, and either way Alec will love it. Will love him.

“Maybe we can find something else,” Alec offers slowly, the words unfurling clear and sure in his heart as he settles in against the back of the couch and pulls Magnus in to rest against him. “Something new for us both. I don’t know what, but - something I didn’t learn at the Institute and you haven’t done with your warlock friends. Something just for us.”

Magnus raises their hands to his mouth and kisses the backs of Alec’s fingers, his eyes full of love and making Alec feel suffused with more joy - with more, period - than he had ever expected to have in his life. More than Alec had even known he could have. “Yes,” he says, before he leans close for another kiss. “Yes, Alexander, I’m certain we can.”


End file.
